Holiday Cheer
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Kenny and Kyle celebrate the holidays together by being seasonally adorable.


Chanukah isn't _that_ important of a holiday. Sure, it commemorates the rededication of the Temple, marks when Judah the Maccabee told the Greeks to shove their oppression up their asses, and celebrates the miracle of a single cruse of oil keeping the Menorah lit for eight whole days while more supplies were prepared; but it's still relatively minor, especially compared to the likes of Pesach and Yom Kippur. However, as the centuries persisted, the month of December became synonymous with consumerism. Each year, people deck their halls and jingle their bells, but not every household cares for oversized stockings or festive firs. That's why, instead, the _chanukkiah_ burns in the windowsill, the flames blazing brightly for all the other reindeer-riddled houses to see, a bold declaration of Jewish identity.

Or that's what Sheila always said as the family gathered around their menorah, younger Kyle wondering whether her spiel was some _mitzvah_ only upheld by Jewish mothers. Then, they'd all say the blessings, light the appropriate number of candles, and celebrate by spinning dreidels and scarfing down latkes and watching that Rugrats special over and over. The _real_ miracle is how long that orange VHS tape lasted, especially considering how fuzzy the screen got every time Tommy yelled how _a Maccababy's gotta do what a Maccababy's gotta do_.

Eventually, though, the tape was retired, Kyle got older, and the marketers sunk more and more resources into their inclusivity campaigns. And, as he graduated first from high school then college, Kyle saw Chanukah morph from a _fuck you_ to Christmas-y commercialism into yet another head on the consumerist hydra. Thanks to Target and Walmart and their retail ilk, the Festival of Lights is all about Star of David string lights and stale chocolate _gelt_ and dreidel-shaped latke tongs and freaking _mensches_ on _benches_. Gotta love capitalism.

Holiday kitsch hasn't completely killed his spirit; after all, he still has reason to celebrate. While he might not live at his parents anymore, missing out on Gerald's sugar coma from overindulging on _sufganiyot_ and Ike's obstinate insistence that sour cream is better on latkes than applesauce, Kyle has his own set of traditions. Some aren't that new or that innovative—because who _doesn't_ watch _Eight Crazy Nights_ at least once this season—however, others are a bit more personal.

The setting sun dyes the sky a burnt shade of orange, clashing horrendously with the red-and-green reindeer lining the roof across the street. Snowdrop lights illumine their porch, mimicking the icicles already too common during the Colorado winter, and undoubtedly consuming half the neighbourhood's power grid. Kyle's little cast-iron _chanukkiah_ might not shine quite as brightly, but it's sure as shit greener than however-many volts they burn every hour. As twilight's rays gradually deepen and darken, he takes census of the blow-up figures peppering adjacent lawns, getting somewhere around twenty-two or twenty-four, then losing his place amongst Frosty's Claymation pals.

Honestly, some people decorate like they _want_ to kill Santa in some Home Alone trap.

Before Kyle can restart his count with Wannabe Dentist Elf Whatshisface, his ears perk, catching the sound of the backdoor. It creaks open, or, more accurately, it shrieks open, the slider quick to remind everyone of its poor misalignment. A small smile sneaks on his face despite the ear-piercing screech, listening closer for the clambering footsteps, then the breathless heave. The door slams shut, then boots clunky closer, first _thunk_ing on tile, then _thumpf_ing on carpet. Rather than have the window's reflection spoil him, Kyle shuts his eyes and waits.

It doesn't take long for arms to wrap around his waist, pulling him tightly in a protective embrace. Kyle leans into the hold, resting his head back on a warm chest, comfortable and supported. A breath breezes by his ear, carrying the sweet scents of store-bought gingerbread and menthol cigarettes. Then hairs tickle his cheek, acrylic and unnatural, spurning Kyle to peak one eye open.

"_Ho, ho, ho_," When Kyle sees a glimpse in the glass, the world's skinniest Santa stands behind him, baby blue eyes and a smooth sweet face hiding beneath an ill-fitting hat and fake grey beard. Kenny, to make a little extra seasonal dough, landed a gig at one of those _Meet Santa_ setups, because if he's going to work the holidays he might as well make some kids happy in the process. Still somewhat in character, Kenny inches in closer, "_Chanukah _Sam-Aye-Ak."

"_Sa-me-ach_," Kyle corrects him, stifling a snort. When Kenny got the job, he suggested Kyle join on as his _special little helper_; Kyle told him under no circumstances would he wear tights or bells in public. Besides, they aren't that strapped for cash. Kyle turns, lifting a hand and grabbing the scratchy prop bread. He yanks it down, revealing not Saint Nick, but a _McCormick_, "'_Happy Chanukah_' works too."

"Hey, I wanna be ready if your mom quizzes me," He says with a pout. Abstaining from an alcoholic SPAM dinner, Kenny and his siblings are joining in the Broflovski tradition of City Wok on Christmas. Although he's nervous about impressing his mother and staying on his father's good side, Kyle is far more concerned about the state of their microbiomes. And his family wonders how Kyle got so attached to Mr Hankey. Kenny gives Kyle a quick squeeze, "I _almost_ got it right this time."

"You did," Kyle nods, green eyes drifting down to the red suit. The wool hangs on him, coat obviously made for someone with Cartman's mass. As if _he_ should be anywhere near small children, "And you didn't change?"

"I wanted to make it for sundown," Kenny shrugs. When his shoulders droop, a smirk tugs at his lips, "Practically punted a six-year-old to get here on time."

"_Bullshit."_

"_Fine_," As Kenny rolls his eyes, Kyle notices a few strands of blond sticking out from under the white fur brim, "I told the six-year-old to _please excuse Santa_ 'cause he didn't wanna miss _spending Chanukah_ with his _Maccabootilious_ boyfriend."

"And if you ever say _Maccabootilious_ again," Kyle taps Kenny's nose, "You won't have to worry,"

"I watch _Sandler_ for you," Kenny uses his '_serious'_ tone, "_Give me this_."

"I still deal with Buddy the Elf."

"Ferrell is a _totally different_ and you know it."

"Whatever," Kyle rolls his eyes, because he _knows_ it's different, therefore he is _changing the subject_. He tilts his head towards the menorah waiting to be lit, "So are we _actually_ timing this correctly or was trying to out-Jew me just an excuse to get off work early?"

"One, not trying to out-Jew you," Kenny only does that for Sheila, "Two, no one needs a _Mall Santa_ on _Christmas Eve_."

"Apparently that six-year-old did."

"She didn't wanna be there," Kenny mumbles, frustration partly garbling his words, "Her mom just wanted a goddamn picture for _Facebook_."

He would bitch about the parents the most, recalling the most aggravating ones as he and Kyle wound down on the couch. There were the neglectful ones, the mean ones, the pushy ones, and the just generally nasty ones; he rarely complained about the kids. Aside from the occasional rotten little shit, the ones asking for toys didn't bother him at all, even the toddlers who pissed their pants. That's why Kyle knows the answer already when he asks, "Did she get one?"

"Took a lil' bit, but _yeah_," He admits with a smile, small but proud. He raises a hand, finding Kyle's head and ruffling the mess of crimson curls, "She was _almost_ as stubborn as you."

Kyle half-laughs, _"Shut up."_

Although there isn't any mistletoe in sight, Kenny pulls Kyle in for a kiss. Which, come to think of it, must look _hilarious_ to anyone looking through their window. If only Kyle wore one of his ugly Chanukah sweaters to really drive the point home. Better not say that aloud, though, or Kenny will _ensure_ that's their holiday card next year.

"Y'know," Kenny pauses, then moves so his mouth hovers beside Kyle's ear. Then, in a low, low whisper, "Whaddya say after we light up I letcha sit on my lap so ya tell me what ya want fo—"

His face red as Kenny's suit, Kyle slams a fist into his side. Not that hard, but Kenny gets the message. And, as always, he reacts overdramatically, letting out an elongated groan as he leans back. With an exaggerated frown, "You're _definitely_ on my _naughty list_ now."

Kyle grins, then says something that makes Kenny smile, "When _aren't_ I?"

* * *

A/N: Happy holidays! I've been, well, having a bit of a rough time, but hopefully yours are all going great. Thanks so much for reading, favouriting, and leaving comments. It means the world. See you next story!


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